


Cherished

by Cuddlebug1603



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Drunk at the Bookshop, Fluff, Hope you like it!, Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, caring Aziraphale, ineffable husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:19:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22430167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuddlebug1603/pseuds/Cuddlebug1603
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have recently averted the apocalypse and gotten their respective bosses off their tails. The world is at peace, and Aziraphale has never felt greater serendipity.Crowley is not feeling fine. Thoughts of Aziraphale and how close to destruction they'd both been in plagued him still, dampening the joy and tranquility he had earned with his best friend.He needs comfort, and to get everything off his chest. Thankfully Aziraphale is there to calm the storm.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 81





	1. Pain

London hardly surprised its residents when the sky, upon the setting sun, collected a thick blanket of clouds and released a heavy, consistent pour. At the corner where A.Z. Fell and Co. sat, dozens of people bustled past each other in the downfall, trying to escape the dreary weather. Cars drove slower to accommodate the gloom of the evening, lampposts only just turning on to guide the ever-present traipsers inhabiting the city.

Now- you might expect one of these cars to _not_ be driving at the same speed, because for centuries, the demon just didn't 'do' slow.

But tonight something was wrong; something was truly off in the way Crowley drove. He respected vehicular safety and drove as a human would, signaling to oncoming traffic and even obeying the odd stop sign or traffic light.

Each bright shine of headlights stung his eyes. He wasn't wearing his glasses.

Tears clawed out of his eyes, unbidden and sour.

Hopeless and breaking down behind the wheel, he almost miracled himself and the car directly to the shop, but he wasn't sure he could perform in this emotional turmoil. The rain beat into the car, not making it to his ears; there was only a static buzz of inconsequential noise. It would've been faster to walk. He was absolutely sure he wouldn't have made it on foot.

The Bently decided not to cry with its owner despite a strong desire to.

The ride was silent, long, and painstaking.

In time, Crowley had parked the street opposite the bookshop. He turned the engine off, but stayed very still as he caught sight of the building.

On the inside the curtains were drawn and the shop sign read 'closed', but dim sparks of light flickered through the cracks. He was definitely in there, probably reading in his armchair, or examining some ancient text.

These images comforted him briefly until a large pop of soundless candlelight flashed inside the store, and he was suddenly back in the chaos of that horrible, horrible calamity.

Smoke filled the air. Nothing could be seen if not for the orange-yellow glow of the towering flames. They didn't need to breathe, yeah, but the smoke filled his lungs and a raging, sorrowful denial pumped through his heart. Thoughts scorched his mind, nastier and more brutal than the hellish surroundings, and he called out for his angel even when his holy presence was nowhere to be found, ripping open his throat, the only response to his pleads in the form of a powerful blast of water.

Knocked to the ground, soaking and boiling in his own sweat and agony, the awful, intolerable truth sunk its fangs into his soul. _'Hellfire. They've killed him. How am I going to live without him. He's gone.'_

He screamed about everything, for every injustice of the world into the fiery heart of the bookshop while it gradually burned alive.

His throat felt raw, like he'd torn it all over again relaying the memory.

Pawing at the car door handle and stumbling blearily onto the pavement, the roar of the weather met his ears for the first time with bullet after bullet of harsh rain stung his skin. Drenched in a terrible mixture of sweat and water, already-tight clothes sticking nastily to his skin and his hair limp and tousled, Crowley couldn't bear to imagine doing anything other than sinking to the ground and praying for Aziraphale to come to him, to bend down and whisper something only he could hear. At least _then_ he could collapse in peace, knowing the bastard was okay.

He didn't have the luxury of prayer or miracles at his disposal, for whatever ungodly reason.

It took him several excruciating minutes to cross the damn road, his vision blurred from rain and nerves, his self-conscious nature rearing behind his growing desperation.

Of course he needed to come here, and of course his image wasn't important in the grand scheme of things, but he didn't let his guard down often enough to be prepared against what might happen. Aziraphale was an angel, the bloody _best_ angel and the greatest individual he'd ever known. Crowley wasn't scared of losing him; he just didn't want to be anything less than what the angel saw in him.

And as he banged on the door, the harsh sound dulled from the rain and the fuzziness in his head, he began to sway on the spot, almost falling backwards, back into the street, and he forced himself to clutch the doorframe, anchoring himself until the door opened and everything got better again.

"Come _on_ , angel..." He muttered into his chest, energy drained.

"Oh, I am so very sorry," Aziraphale lamented, barely audible through the thick wooden door, "but we are actually closed at the moment. Do take care in this weather; there is a rather nifty cafe down the street open for shelter. Feel free to take an umbrella, person, and have a fair evening!"

Crowley didn't turn to see the miracle of a convenient umbrella stand, too focused on knocking again, weaker this time, before he could hear any more footsteps walking away from the door.

Aziraphale's kind voice gained a slight edge, clearly growing impatient with this human stranger trying to come in and get his valuable books and belongings all soggy. "Excuse me, if I have not made myself clear. This shop is not open, so if you would please leave, I'd greatly appreciate it."

His legs could no longer support him, and the slump of his body against the door sounded pitiful. Trying his best to pull himself up on the doorknob, he gave one last tiny knock, arms trembling enough to rattle the handle.

He heard an exasperated huff and, thank somebody, footsteps coming closer. Crowley hadn't felt this dizzy and unwell for many decades and was certain he was going to pass out.

The door unlocked. Without any time or effort to move his weight, the door swung and Crowley fell, enveloped instinctively in Aziraphale's arms.

While Aziraphale stared down at him, the demon buried himself as far as he could into the warmth and comfort, lost as his body ached with grief and longing, arms unable to do more than clutch desperately at the angel's tartan suit jacket, kicking the floor away in a small act to get just a little bit closer.

" _Crowley-!"_

"Aziraphale...please, hold me, and don't leave."

And he passed out in Aziraphale's grasp, departing the with a stabbing pain in his head and the desire in his heart that never truly went away.


	2. Healing

"Crowley?"

The demon groaned, pain blazing through every nerve in his body.

"Crowley, dearest, please get up."

Clutching his arms against his sides, he slowly, purposefully got himself to a sitting position on the couch.

This couch, he recognized, was Aziraphale's. As was the candlelit bookshop and the sweet voice urging him awake.

His eyes snapped open. On the other side of the couch sat Aziraphale, looking onto him with concern.

The sight of him relieved some of the ache in his heart, but very little in terms of everything else. Never in his existence had he received this much intense pain. He felt beaten, unseen bruises sunken down into his bones, head pounding with a migraine, skin aflame and tormented. It shot into him relentlessly; though his body, ever pale and unhealthily-thin, looked fine and normal _._ It might as well've been invisible holy water.

As soon as Crowley was stable and upright, Aziraphale stood up, beginning to hover over him.

"Crowley, am I allowed to look at you unburdened?" Aziraphale spoke quietly, completely serious, already scanning Crowley intensely like every second mattered.

Crowley heartily appreciated the urgency, close to biting off his own tongue as a wave of needles descended into. He motioned vaguely to his head and chest, gripping the arm of the couch and biting out his answer through clenched jaws. "Yes, fine, angel, just _do sssomething_."

Aziraphale snapped, miracling away Crowley's shirt and jacket. Nothing new, they'd lived all of history together in which they inevitably saw one another in the nude. Still, it wasn't every decade he got stripped by the angel. He then took Crowley's glasses, setting them aside to where they could easily be reclaimed. _'Kind, thoughtful angel.'_

Aziraphale took Crowley's face in his hands with the utmost tenderness.

At this small, unremarkable touch, the burning of his skin vanished, and he let out a breath.

The angel began to spread the relieving grace of his touch, swiping his thumb across his cheeks, leaning in to inspect his eyes with affection and practically _massaging_ his neck.

The pain in Crowley's body left in minutes, soothed with each gentle caress of the angel's hands as they roamed, ridding agony and leaving nothing but a wonderfully-contented, utterly-besotted demon.

It soon became apparent to Crowley how much better he was feeling. Like, he wasn't in pain _at all_ now, except Aziraphale had no indication of this, and therefore did not stop touching him. He was out of his mind with inhuman overstimulation, and after so much harm. He tried to pull himself away but his body refused to cooperate, greedy for this, for anything and everything he could get. Because they didn't do this, not ever, and they weren't about to start until certain things were said and done.

"Aziraphale..." Crowley whispered, panting with the effort to speak through such immense pleasure.

His hands stilled immediately, one on his shoulder and the other cupping his cheek.

"Aziraphale," he repeated, slowly and bitterly, hating all the words coming out of his mouth. "I think you might be, uh...overdoing it, a smidge. With the healing. I mean, I think you did enough."

The angel looked down at him in confusion. "I'm not healing you, Crowley. Are you really...feeling better?"

Crowley snorted, glazed and slightly punch-drunk from the aftermath of being touched. "Oh, come on," he laughed at what he was sure must've been a joke, "You're obviously doing something!"

They stared at each other, blind to the obvious in what had, moments ago, been only excruciating pain for Crowley and Aziraphale trying his damnedest to alleviate it. The only sound in the room was Crowley, whose breathing still wasn't quite right, half from mirth, the other from relief.

Then something clicked for Aziraphale, his confused expression dissipating. He looked at Crowley and how he, Aziraphale, was making an effort to be close to the demon. Crowley was gorgeous, like usual, trying to appear cool and unaffected. He looked at his best friend once more, filled with light. "Crowley, why did you come here tonight?"

He wasn't panting anymore, and he looked very pleased until he'd processed Aziraphale's question. Glancing at the hand on his shoulder, he smiled brokenly, voice high and anxiety-ridden. "Wanted to check up on you, is all."

"Please tell me, Crowley." He said, taking extra care as he carded a hand through the demon's fiery hair.

Crowley made a sinful noise, stretching upwards to meet the angel's hand. When he regained himself and met Aziraphale's eyes again, they were full of tears, the wracks of pain and grief edging back into his system. "I...I can't stop thinking about the Apocalypse, and when I lost you. I'm not sleeping at night, cause-" he gasped, "You're constantly burning away, every time I close my eyes, in my nightmares, every day..."

Aziraphale paused, not expecting that answer.

Another silence passed, Crowley accepting every loving touch, Aziraphale contemplating their world.

"I think," Aziraphale suggested, assuring nothing but sincerity, "I think it's time we had a chat together. Get some things off our chests."


	3. Exposure

Aziraphale let his hands linger on Crowley for just a second longer before taking a seat on the couch. He never took his eyes off the demon for long.

Crowley was a mess, he knew. His skin had started to burn again, making him feel red and sensitive, and his tears were pouring from him like the muffled rainfall dampening the city streets.

Chancing a glance at the angel, Crowley noticed how Aziraphale had not moved far. He was within an arm's length; close enough to touch. This, he recognized, meant change, maybe less gradually than before.

"Would you like to begin?" Aziraphale prompted. As he said it he moved his hand to lie face up between them.

For a moment, he couldn't do anything but stare at the gesture. His heart, of course, won over when he allowed his own hand to fall limply onto Aziraphale's.

The angel smiled, a gentle elation taking over him at the Crowley's tenderness. "Whenever you wish, dearest. I'm here."

The demon said nothing. What was he to say? Clearly, this was all the work of thousands of years of bottled-up emotions, abandonment issues, and the horrible pattern of an angel, the best one of the lot, giving him purpose over all else throughout time. Aziraphale had been the shining light of Crowley's existence for an embarrassing amount of time.

They just spent the last decade in close proximity, planning to save the world _together_. They were on _their_ side now, officially. The thought of separating was unthinkable, an absolute nightmare to Crowley. Another tragedy would be Aziraphale not believing him to be worthwhile.

He knew he was Aziraphale's best friend, he wasn't blind. The two of them spent less and less time with anyone except each other nowadays. But the notion of Aziraphale holding even half of the longing and desire he himself possessed over the course of time was foolish. He felt guilty for loving so deeply, but there was hardly anything he could do about it now. He'd take what he got when it came to Aziraphale: that's just how it was.

"I couldn't take it," Crowley heard himself saying, "when the shop burned down."

Aziraphale gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, eyebrows knitting.

He sniffled, using his other hand to wipe his eyes. "I didn't want to think what they'd done to you. I thought you were gone, I-"

Looking up at the angel, who appeared faintly curious and concerned, his voice became more of a whimper. "I knew it was my fault. They found out you're the thing in the universe that matters most to me, and they destroyed you, because they knew it would destroy me. It still would! It does, any day I bother to sleep and every time I shut my damned eyes. You're constantly burning."

"I don't like to think anymore. But if I stop thinking, that's no good either. It's worse than torture, angel." He stopped, thinking if he went on any more he'd burst, either into flames or tears.

"Crowley, really look at me for a moment, would you please?" He shushed the demon as he began to look nervous. "I promise you, all will be well between us."

Obediently, Crowley focused his watering eyes entirely on his angel.

Aziraphale touched his palm to Crowley's chest. In waves, he began to summon each and every loving thought and memory throughout his angelic lifetime and share it with his demon. The returning pain immediately left him, replacing with it a sense of wholeness and strength through the fibers of his soul.

This was love. And patience. And lust, and loneliness, and all of the intricate little bits and pieces that both he and Aziraphale had experienced from life on Earth.

Crowley looked to Aziraphale. Aziraphale's shoulders sagged under the weight of time. But he smiled, for all the things that had ever gone wrong and right, for their ability to sit and be together without fear.

"I need you to know how much it pains me to see you in this much anguish over me," Aziraphale whispered. He slid forward, cradling the demon's face once more, never letting go of his hand. "I need us to begin acknowledging the terrible, confining circumstances of our past. With Heaven. With how-"

He stuttered, losing his confident edge for just a moment. "With how I acted towards you and I. I treated you poorly, Crowley. I thought we were enemies. I thought you unbridled from your demonic ways. And when I began to care more deeply for you, I knew they would attempt to rid of you." Hatred shone in his eyes.

"We are going to resolve ourselves from our misfortune, together. Crowley, I take it as my highest duty and honor to love you. Now, then, and for the rest of time."

And though the nightmares still burned his soul, and the pain never fully dissipated, Crowley took it upon himself to always hold the angel's hands tenderly in his own.


End file.
